Northern California 9 Nov 1997

Southern California 10 Nov 1997 11 Nov 1997

The Southwest 12 Nov 1997

Texas 13 Nov 1997 14 Nov 1997 16 Nov 1997

New Orleans 16 Nov 1997 18 Nov 1997

Montgomery, Alabama 19 Nov 1997

Sunday evening, 16 Nov 97 New Orleans, Louisiana

So, where are we? The French Quarter, New Orleans. After a not fun search for a place to stay, we’re in a wonderful old house (Lamothe—1839) in a suite at the top (3rd floor). Hardly the most convenient of the rooms we’ve stayed in so far, but easily the most charming.

The trip from Houston was longish and a bit tedious. Much of the highway is on stilts, as the land around here is largely a swamp. And, it goes for miles and miles lined with beautiful but unchanging trees, and one of us was having a bit of trouble staying awake. Then, we’re not as fresh as we once were, either. But vintage Praire Home Companion tapes (c. 1980) helped some.

Getting into New Orleans was easy enough, but the French Quarter is something else. Might be good to arrange for something before you get here, especially if you have a recommendation. The tourists are the most dangerous thing I’ve seen so far, although more than one of the people who resides on the street wouldn’t be fun to tangle with. Our Houston hosts assured us that we should stay in Baton Rouge, and just visit New Orleans, the murder capital of the world. If you don’t hear from us again, it’s been nice knowing you.

. . .

Well, we made it back from dinner. No apparent problems out there. Ate in a cafeteria kind of place on Jackson Square, right in front of the Cathedral. Nice atmosphere (packed), and decent food. Tomorrow, we’ll try to get into Paul Prudhomme’s place for dinner.

A bit more about the room (Melissa). It was probably originally a bedroom and sitting room, with, of course, an iron-railed balcony overlooking the boulevard (Esplanade) below. Since it’s on the edge of the French Quarter, it’s wonderfully quiet. There are two fireplaces, a chandelier, and the most magnificent half-round three-legged table I’ve ever seen. Paintings over the mantles, of course, and a grand old creaky armoire for our clothes. A secretary, a wooden trunk, a sofa, a marble-topped end table, and floorboards four to six inches wide. The bed is some kind of canopy-like structure, but unlike the four-poster bed we slept in last night, it has an enormous headboard that supports an elaborate wooden over-headboard (I really have no idea what they’re called, but I’ve seen them in the movies), ready for gauze or lace to connect it to the two sides and the foot of the bed. One of the night table lamps didn’t work because it’s cord was caught under the foot of the bed, so of course I asked Michael to lift the bed up so I could get the cord out. How was I to know this antique monster would fall apart on us? How was I to know all the slats would hit the floor one by one? It’s back together now, but I’m not so sure the streets wouldn’t be safer tonight.

Tomorow, official touring...